The Darkest of Ethical Quandaries
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "She was so different from who she had once been; gone was that stoic little lady, severe and bleak, and in place of her was a woman." Gomez is caught between two very different problems. A chapter story with close ties to the musical.
1. Storge

**Disclaimer: **None of the characters mentioned within belong to me. The plot of the musical isn't mine either. I make no monetary gain from these stories.

**Author's note: **This is an attempt at a darker – more filmic- version of the musical plot. While I love every incarnation the films will always be my favourite.

I am going to attempt, with the best will in the world, to make this a chapter story and complete it.

It could, if you squint, be viewed as a prelude to my story 'Paris'.

**Please read, review, follow and, most essentially, enjoy.**

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><p>He rarely gave into anything as deep as philosophical musings, being more inclined to leave the politics and ethics of their decisions in the hands of his exquisitely capable wife. Before him now stood the darkest of ethical quandaries, and at the heart the two most important women in his life. Between his fingers his rapier was heavy, and between his mind and heart his conscience was leaden. He stared at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time properly; as if before this moment he had viewed her through a lens of smeared, filmy glass which had softened the edges of her maturity to him.<p>

"Married?"

The word fell from his mouth unaided, unwanted there and expelled deservingly. His eyes focussed on his daughter's and they were pleading, miserable in their desperation.

"You can't tell her," she suddenly whispered, her dry little voice frantic.

It took him a moment to fully comprehend and when he did his rapier went limp in his fingers as the realisation of what his girl was asking him to do became solid and tangible.

He barked a shocked little laugh, "Wednesday, no."

Her face contorted into agony as she fished behind her collar for a chain, on which there was strung a very – he had to concede – pretty engagement ring. He near blanched at its production, hidden in all its elusive glory, and now offered to him as a symbol of something he couldn't quite understand.

He shook his head, spoke a little more harshly, "Wednesday, no!"

She clutched her fists by her side, her pale face grew paler, "Father, please. I know what I am asking-"

"No," he said calmly, going towards the sideboard and lifting the decanter, "You don't. You cannot possibly comprehend."

"She's so…"

He spun on his heels to look at her, daring her to criticise her own mother, and the amber liquid sloshed out of his glass and on to the floor. She cowered a little, unused to his rage and ire, and shook her head.

"She'll tell me I'm wrong," she said quietly, "She needs to know him first."

He shook his head a little, laying his weapon across the desk and putting the glass beside it, "You think so lowly of her?"

"Father, your vision of her is clouded."

He was so incredulous he couldn't answer her. Yes. Clouded beyond all sensible recognition. Clouded wilfully and wonderfully.

"I'm not saying you're wrong but I am saying you're clouded in your judgement of her. She will tell me I'm wrong…we – I – need time."

"Time for what Wednesday?"

"For them to get to know us," she said desperately, "Please, father, please."

He looked at her, then glanced at his wedding ring and then back to his daughter. Her face was flushed and clutched together, her hands were wringing and turning red. Panic stabbed at him then, mixed with anxiety. She was evidently distressed, though it hardly took an astute man to deduce this.

"I've never lied-"

"I wouldn't ask you father, if I didn't think I needed to," she rushed towards him and he opened his arms.

She was so different from who she had once been; gone was that stoic little lady, severe and bleak, and in place of her was a woman. Where, he wondered, had she gone? That little girl who had performed Hamlet and spit-roasted camp Chippewa's staff, where was she now?

He touched her crown with his lips and mourned her braids. They had disappeared over the course of the summer and now her hair grazed the sides of her jaw in a cut that had first shocked him. He thought now that she rather suited it but he couldn't help but miss how easy it had been to be the father of a little girl.

"Mother will tell me I'm wrong," she said mournfully.

"And she'll be right," he said, pushing her back from him to look into her face. "You must tell her tonight. I'll only keep your secret for a few hours."

She looked at him, "Thank you father. I wouldn't ask-"

He shook his head and she fell silent, "Don't. Just don't keep this from your mother any longer than you need to. Promise me."

"I promise you," she said blandly, taking a step back, "I have never lied."

"Untill now, neither have I," he said as he lifted the glass from the desk again and sat down, "Neither have I."

"Thank you father," she almost whispered, retreating from the room and closing the door behind her.

He sat down on the couch and stared into the fire. Lie to Morticia. Some may not call it a lie but it was, it was a lie by omission and this fact was very clear to him. His reluctance, indeed, had been born from the fact that to omit this knowledge was to commit a cardinal sin against her. He had never kept a secret from his wife but nor had his daughter ever invited him into her confidences in such an abundant way. Now he was firmly trapped; between eros and storge. There was, he mused, the good kind of trapped. The kind of trapped situation when you couldn't decide between the manacles or the rope. When she decided that she would keep him prisoner in the dungeon until she saw fit. When she trapped him between her body and the sheets. All the good sort of entrapment situations would be firmly unavailable to him if he decided to navigate this one poorly.

Storge. From the bookcase to his left he plucked a tome of philosophy, and flicked nearly to the most early description of the types of love before nausea rose in his throat and he slammed it shut, leaning his head against the cool shelf of the bookcase. He thrust the dusty book back into its space and with one neat slam, brought down his fist onto the shelf itself. It was enough to dissipate his panic for the moment and so, with the thoughts of storge and all of its implications, he returned to where he had been sitting upon the couch.

His daughter, the little girl he had raised and loved and held in such high esteem that she surely could never have made anything akin to a mistake, appeared to be making a colossal one now. Not, he thought ruefully to himself as he undid the row of buttons on his blazer, that he considered marriage in itself to be a mistake. Marrying young or for the wrong reasons was a mistake. Marriage was not a mistake. He had never believed, not even for the most miniscule of moment, that his marriage had been a mistake.

He wondered about this boy too, and a beast of jealousy grew monstrous and loud in the pit of his stomach. Black and spiny, it crawled through him and into his heart where it made a home. To take his child, to make her a woman and to marry her, seemed so desperate a crime the likes of which no man had the right to commit against him. A furious growl, dampened by manners and his sensibilities, pushed its way to his lips.

"This is a morose scene."

At this sound of velvet made audible his head snapped up. Framed by the dying sun and the rotting oak of the door frame there was something unholy in the very presentation of her.

"Whatever could be wrong my darling husband?"

Her words carried across the room to meet his ears like promises made to a dying soul. On the zephyr of her voice, he was carried to the heights of heaven.

"When you are upon this earth," he sprung to his feet, urgently needing to be gallant in the face of such perfidy, "Nothing could be wrong."

She smiled as she came towards where he stood. From the heat of her greenhouse her face was flushed unusually and her eyes glittered.

"Dinner tonight," she touched his lapels lightly, "And a boy?"

She spoke of this with fond amusement, with light and humorous pleasure. The implication of camaraderie, of a shared joke, was almost too much for him. He was not only allowing himself to be taken advantage of but by lying to her, he suddenly realised, he was making a fool of her too. There was no equality in this conversation when he had the co-ordinates to navigate this coming dinner and she did not.

"Morticia," he groaned, "I…"

"Yes my love," she turned her wide eyes on him, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, feeling the graze of her fingers across his cheek as if they were a branding iron.

He had sworn his allegiance to his child, against his wife. It was very simple.

"Are you unwell my love?" She leaned towards him, her lips grazing his ear-lobe, "If need be I can make it all better."

Abacination was akin to such torture as she, and his conscience, inflicted upon him now. To give in to her would be morally wrong but to resist her required a strength of character that he had lost the moment she slithered into his life.

"You can," he was biting his knuckles before he realised, his teeth making indents in the soft white flesh of his hand.

She prised his hand from his lips and when he opened his eyes he found her own were glistening with concern, "Gomez, my darling, are you alright."

Even to him his laugh of response sounded forced as he withdrew his hand from hers, "Of course my dear, just…"

She moved from him, taking his hand again and going towards the couch, sat down. He took his place beside her and she sidled nearer, placing a note on his lap. It was printed with pastel flowers and in the light of the fire the cheap paper became almost transparent.

"Prepare to read the most moving verse since Shakespeare last chewed upon his quill," she whispered conspiratorially, but kindly still, "And not only moving verse, but accompanied by a bunch of lemon-coloured roses. They look far prettier sans petals."

He laughed feebly, casting his eyes again over the limerick which was authored by Mrs Beineke.

"Is this woman sick?"

Morticia took the note from him and studied it again, "More's the pity if she's not."

"What if," he cast his eyes towards the fire, "What if she's in love with him?"

"Gomez," he knew instantly that she had misinterpreted him, "I know you worry about losing her but it's puppy love. Trust me. She's going to have lots of fun before she decides to settle down."

"How can you be sure?"

His throat was tight.

She leaned towards him again and the delicious scent of her perfume gathered around him like a cloud. With this in his head, he couldn't possibly lie to her if she were to ask him right now to bear his soul. She kissed his jaw line and her hands found the knot upon his tie, her sharp vermillion nails loosening the silk. The rarity of this was lost in the fact that he couldn't possibly allow her seduction to take place for fear of his lies pouring forth.

"She's just like her mother," she whispered, taking his hand and placing it authoritatively upon her hip.

He took her hand in his instead, keen to orchestrate a change in tone.

"You're beautiful," he said, pulling back to look at her face.

"Yes…let's explore that revelation further."

Until he had met her, he hadn't known a human could purr.

"Tish," he said seriously, "You know how I love you, don't you?"

She laughed softly, then sat back a little from him, "Yes Gomez. Not once have I doubted it but I rather like an illustration every now…and then."

"And then some?"

He scolded himself the minute the flirtation left his lips and his hands were on her shoulders.

"Yes," she whispered, "Precisely."

Her hands upon his face, her claws in his heart, he was pulled into her spiral of seduction as he found his lips upon hers. Underneath them the pillows were pulled by both and scattered across the floor, the glass of scotch falling victim to the projectiles. Then his blazer and waistcoat, and under his fingers he felt the lace of her hem.

"God! This is what I mean!"

Cheek to cheek they turned their faces towards the door and underneath him he was aware of her laboured breath and her little curse of disappointment. Despite himself, and the better part of his soul, he was pleased at the fact she felt so deprived.

Unfazed by such an interruption, he helped her to sit more comfortably before they both turned to face their daughter. She was standing in the door way, a note pad grasped in hand, and was flanked by all of the others; none of whom illustrated any more than mild amusement.

"This is what I mean?"

Morticia asked gently, brushing her hair back from her face with a smile and she settled properly on the couch.

"All I want is a normal night, is that so much to give me?"

He avoided his wife's eyes as she turned her exquisite face towards his. When he did not look at her, and after the humiliation of his ignorance had become too much, she turned back to her daughter as if facing a battle alone.

After all, that's exactly what he had left her to. He let his head fall into his hands and felt her eyes pierce him again.

The tenor of the room, so warm and very passionate moments before, had grown so cold that the fire might well die within a moment. Across the icy silence the real head of the family spoke;

"Of course my darling, it's nothing to ask at all."

He could barely suppress his groan at his wife's words.

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><p>I hope you enjoyed.<p> 


	2. Normality

**Author's note: Thank you so very much for your reviews on the previous chapter! I am very much enjoying writing this and I hope you are enjoying reading it. **

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><p>Normal. The word rang around the room, bounced off of the walls and made the pages of the books rustle. Thing lept onto the couch between them and curled his fingers around the edge, fraught with anticipation of the conflict about to erupt. His wife's mother, his brother and his sons poured into the room behind his daughter. There might as well have been a thousand people witnessing the beginning of his downfall, though to have his most intimate family pay witness to his torture was a pain uniquely fostered within him. He all but shook with horror.<p>

"Just be…" Wednesday flapped her arms around gracelessly and beside him his wife flinched.

"Darling," Morticia tilted her face again towards him, though it was not to him her affectation was addressed, "We will be grace personified."

His daughter moaned a little, "Our idea of grace and theirs-"

"Will be the same, I'm sure," Morticia finished gently, "Have some faith in us, my darling."

"I do! I'm just asking for us to be ordinary," she said, defeat lacing her voice as she fell into the plush seat beside the fire.

Everyone was watching her with curiosity, the same curiosity with which someone drove past a car crash and felt both guilty and compelled as they observed. He winced as Morticia's eyes, her mouth set in a fine grimace of confusion, swivelled toward him. When he did not meet her glare, blatantly ignoring her silent request for defence, she visibly tensed beside him.

"And we are promising we will be," he suddenly said, lifting his eyes from his shoes but never once looking towards Morticia, "Whatever that is."

"And this boy, Lewis, will fall madly in love with us."

He nearly smirked, for his wife's mistake was deliberate. She knew his name was Lucas and she knew exactly who he was. Morticia, despite herself, derived great pleasure from the privileges of mental torture unique to motherhood.

"It's Lucas mother," Wednesday whispered.

"Of course it is," she answered as she stood, "My darling. I promise you, we will all be normal."

-0-

"The implicit suggestion is, of course, that we are somehow abnormal," she let her robe drop to the floor.

There had never been a painting, nor a vision, nor a commitment of such beauty to memory as there had to be when he looked upon her. He cursed himself when his swallow was audible. She smiled, as she always did, when she caught him in his admiration. Eros. The love of the physical. The love derived from physical pleasure. The madness of the gods.

"Tish…"

"Gomez?"

"There's nothing abnormal about you," he whispered, "Not physically anyway."

As she passed by, she swatted him on the shoulder lightly. He caught her hand and kissed her lips and then returned to polishing his shoes. He had been at this task for almost an hour and the finely tooled patent was now just a distraction for him rather than a true goal. He pushed them to the side and watched her retreating form for a moment.

To this woman, this woman who was everything, he was lying.

She disappeared into her dressing room, and despite himself he hoped that she would have somehow redressed when she emerged. No such luck was befalling Gomez Addams tonight. The only thing she reappeared with were two dresses on hangers and stockings on her legs.

If it hadn't been beautiful it would have been indecent. To look towards the ceiling and acknowledge the gods' torture of him would be to give into this night of trials and tribulations. Instead he simply stared.

"This or this?"

She presented the dresses to him. Both were predictably black but unpredictably and unusually knee length. He recalled she had commissioned the one on the right for the funeral of a friend and the other for a dinner with one of his associates.

"Something else underneath first, I hope."

"Why don't you help me pick those instead? Small, satin, lace? Corset…"

"A tempting offer," he smirked, "But they were meant to be here ten minutes ago."

"Imagine how late we could be," She held up the dresses like the balances of a scale, "Hmm?"

"The one on the left," he answered.

"Is it normal enough?"

The words were almost bitter. He looked towards her and felt a pang of guilt so intense that he could barely muster a smile at her cattiness.

"More than normal," he smiled, "But never bland cara mia."

"Never bland," she repeated, "Lace me up won't you?"

"Do you want to kill me?"

"Oh yes, yes very much so," she cocked an eye-brow, "But you will love your death."

Death, indeed, was a certainty. Perhaps at this rate - as his hearth thumped and he pulled on satin laces and she leaned forward against her dresser and moaned in the most feral of pleasures – he would die much quicker than he realised. Perhaps death would be a release from all of it; from the perfidy to which, with every passing moment, he was bound further.

"I will always love you."

As he tied the knot one final time so it lay snug in the valley of her lower back, his voice was weak with the protestations from his denied body.

"I know that," she was almost dismissive in her rebuttal but belied her scolding with a touch to his cheek, "Are you feeling contemplative?"

"No, out of my depth rather," he muttered, "And worried about mistakes."

"Don't be," she said softly, sliding her dress over her hips, "Don't be."

"You always put me at ease," he confided, as if it were some desperate secret.

"That, mon cher, is my job," she said softly.

-0-

Wednesday paced atop the stairs, every now and then peering down into the lobby below. Lurch waited dutifully by the door and from the large window at the far end she could see the gravel drive that wound towards their house; the drive up which the Beinekes would come, bringing her fate with them.

She thought of her conversation with her father this afternoon and was almost overcome with fear. Lie to her mother; she failed to see now what the Wednesday of this morning had been thinking. She almost wept at the very reminder of how utterly foolish she'd been. Between her fingers she twisted the pink cotton of the dress that she had donned in the hope of appearing normal. She had gone to the mall that very morning and bought this and spent hours in front of the mirror imagining her mother's every possible reaction. Then she had seriously considered going to the nearest mental health facility and, after signing herself in, seeking a second opinion as to the state of her sanity.

She grew warm with indignation then cold with shame intermittently. First she would tell herself that her mother was not in a position to judge, that her father was sentimental, that her parents' marriage had been far from well brokered and a little more than selfish. Then shame would befall her and she'd think only of how much she loved them and how terrible she was being.

Never once had they smothered or controlled her. When she was little they had indulged both her and her brother and they indulged the three of them still. Her life had been charmed and never once hard. In short, she had no right to resent them.

She thought back to her days of teen angst; though more muted, they had been far deadlier than those of her contemporaries and yet her parents led her through them with aplomb, even though at times throttling her must have seemed attractive, and brought her out of the other end with love unparalleled. Her brothers too were encouraged and admired and loved as if they were precious and rare things. They were good parents, despite how in contrary to common culture they were. Despite how unlike Lucas' family they were, even despite how in love they still were.

Her guilt-hued nostalgia led her to think about her youngest brother's first few months of life. Her parents hadn't been given a moment between their battling children and their lovesick brother and yet still they managed to hold them together with the ease with which they appeared to do everything. After that even Wednesday had been in favour of the month long tour of Eastern Europe they decided to take, despite her fear that she would be blessed with a fourth sibling.

"What in all that is holy are you wearing?"

She looked down to see her little brother, moustachioed face titled upwards in utter horror, looking at her.

"A dress."

"A travesty," he countered, "Mother will-"

"Leave mother out of this," she snapped.

He shrugged his slight shoulders, his satin vest lifting as he did so and his little face, so pernicious yet cute, crumpled like paper in a precursor to weeping. His miniature rapier, the tip blunted from so many altercations with the suits of armour around the house, dropped to the floor with a clatter. Startled by the noise, more afraid of attracting the attention of her parents sooner than she had to, she panicked.

"Pubert," she crouched so she was eye-level with him, "I am sorry. Just don't bite anyone tonight, alright?"

She touched his pomaded hair.

"You're changing," he wept dolefully, seeking out her rarely given affection as he curled his hands around her neck. She was about to shake him off when she realised that was hardly fair.

"I'm not," she tried to protest feebly but even to her own ears it was unconvincing.

Was changing really such a bad thing? Was normal really so awful? She knew though that one thing she had done was already a sin; she'd driven a wedge between her two biggest allies. Why not, she thought to herself, commit a few more before you're caught out?

-0-

In the parlour Lurch had gone all out with the dusting, lit a sparking fire and on the sideboard had provided a fine selection of cocktails. Late, and most certainly lost, their guests had yet to appear. Pubert was sandwiched between them and as was his habit, was fidgeting with the sleeve of his mother's dress. He took these little fits of affection often and Gomez would wake to find him squashed between their sleeping forms in bed or his feet pattering across their bedroom floor to ask politely if he might climb in.

"I love you mother," he told her softly, cupping his hand around her ear as if it were a secret. He produced a thorny stem - one which had been previously pilfered from the greenhouse no doubt - and offered it to her.

She kissed his cheek, pulled him into her lap, and cradled him there.

"My little prince of darkness," she whispered across his brow.

In that very moment, had it not been for the grumbling of a car across the gravel, Gomez might have wept with sheer love or perhaps set the world alight with revelations as he observed the scene playing out beside him. Instead he was so overcome with emotion that the moment slipped by him and soon the booming of the bell announced the arrival of the Ohioans.

Morticia pulled her little boy to her once more, then set him down on the floor.

"Have you even see Wednesday?"

She turned to him for a moment, her hand snaking out to touch his on the couch in an illustration of camaraderie. As soon as he could, and despite how terrible he felt, he withdrew his hand.

"No, I haven't."

He looked up just in time to see the strange look which darted across her face, then her features reassembled into the mask of passive calm which was typical to her. Suddenly the room felt unbearably warm and small, as if the walls were pushing in on top of him. Their eyes, so used to finding each other in these moments of need, locked together and he knew suspicions had taken root in her mind.

Below his ribs he felt the stirring of terror.

"Gomez," she leaned towards him as the rest of the household dutifully filtered into the lobby, her voice low and concerned, "Is there something wrong?"

"No," he answered too swiftly and, to her keen ears, guiltily.

She gave him a long glance then pulled away from him. Her entire face, for a moment, was a portrait of hurt but just as quickly as it had painted itself, it was erased. His heart, heavy with guilt, was almost leaden with horror.

"As you say," she nodded her head, but lingering around her mouth were the traces of her disappointment.

She swayed away from him then, back straight and hips pushed forward, just as Lurch pulled the door open.

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><p><strong>Please read and review! Thank you again. <strong>


	3. Good Breeding

**Author's note**: thank you for reading and reviewing. It is truly appreciated.

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><p>Morticia had always known that outsider impression was everything. Good breeding made a woman what she was and facilitated her movement; up or down. She was exceptionally well bred.<p>

She had stumbled upon this understanding in her last weeks of finishing school years ago. Every other lesson she had either understood before, or felt unnecessary in her life. She knew how to hold a knife and fork and knew how to host an excellent and entertaining soiree. These qualities did her no harm and allowed her husband's businesses to flourish and her parties to be considered the best among their circle of family and friends. She was delicately diplomatic on all fronts on these occasions. An aspect of her good breeding.

She had always been someone who has observed others as a way of working her way through the world, for learning, or on the more base occasions, for entertainment. The trait of the observer had been something she had given to her keenly, acutely intelligent daughter. Her daughter who was nowhere to be found as she looked upon the guests who had just crossed their threshold.

It struck her, not for the first time, that most of the guests you invited into your home weren't really welcome at all. Those who were welcome did not need to be invited.

And she knew people watched them and saw something entirely different too. What these Beinekes saw could have a variety of outcomes. They might watch them and see eccentricities beyond sensible reason, unshakeable allies, a formidable couple who worked together to get the best of anything on offer. They will see, she thought to herself, exactly what I want them to see.

She was quietly magnetic and she encouraged him to be loudly engaging; it had always been the way of it. He bounced off of her security, her assurance, and she knew that this was the best way to see her husband advance. Then they both achieved. Any guest would think that Mr Addams was in charge: a friend would know different.

Another aspect of her good breeding was her unfailing manners. She had oft found herself in situations where someone had invaded her home, her stamping ground (though she was not one partial to stamping), and she had had to deal with them in a manner that was unfailingly polite and deadly.

All of this analysis came into her clever mind before the Beinekes were over the threshold and before she could shut her suspicions down. It all occurred before her husband had a moment to speak and it all came about because of the way his eyes wouldn't meet hers.

She knew him as well as she knew herself; sometimes she lost the outlines of their individual identities while attempting to decipher their differences. Right now though, it felt as if he could be on the other side of the room or the other side of the world and it would not make a difference.

She looked at everyone in the lobby, her eyes scanning them all, and then his voice brought sound back to the world; as if a barrier had been shattered.

"Morticia, my beautiful wife," he motioned towards her with a theatrical hand.

Gomez was insufferably vain…and she loved it. She loved how proud, how covetous, how truly he was a braggart when it came to all matters concerning her. He loved her like a curio; for friends to be jealous of, for associates to covet, for family to loathe because of his adoration and her value and for him something to be curated, studied, and treated as a prize.

His smile was one of a collector when they find a rarity that they have wanted forever and get to keep. Despite his evident discomfort and strangeness surrounding this evening, Gomez could never quite get past those moments of sheer pleasure in her existence.

It made it incredibly difficult to be irritated at him even when she wanted to be.

She pictured a vine of suspicion growing inside her, attaching itself first to her arteries where it branched into her veins and capillaries; leaving its unique and stinging poison as it went.

She inclined her head towards their guests, moving towards them and pushing her vague suspicions to the side. They looked startled, though for what reason of the multiple she couldn't decide. Regardless of what it was, it made her proud to think it might be something of her creation.

Her long legs covered the space in a stride and she offered her hand first to the husband. He blushed, fumbled, then obviously recalling polite society bent to kiss the back of her hand. His lips were rough and awkward, and he squirmed against her cold skin. Still, she didn't miss the way his starved hand gripped her fingers.

"Mr Beinenke, a pleasure."

She was rather good at lying. Seamlessly, perfectly, she turned to his wife.

For this woman she immediately bore pity and not of the unkind variety either. The pity did not revolve around her appearance – though her frumpy yellow dress and hairstyle were desperately in need of some intervention – but around her evident sadness. Where her face was overly bright and smiling, her eyes were bleak and lifeless. Someone could have the saddest face but as long as their eyes glittered there was hope for reanimation, for reinvention and life again.

"I'm Alice."

From the tone of her voice it was made evident to Morticia that Alice appeared to have lost all of her glitter.

"Hello Alice," she smiled, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for the card and flowers."

"It was nothing," the woman's curls bounced around her neck as she spoke, "Thank you for having us."

The rest of the family were introduced, and their attempts to be _normal_ where comical and disastrous in turn. Mamma excused herself to her dungeon, which didn't seem to appeal to their guests, and she had to pull Pubert to her side to prevent him from latching those shining little teeth onto Mr Beineke's leg after the man absently patted his head. Her son, after all, was just attempting to be friendly. Fester, in his typical style, didn't even try and when Thing came to say hello their guests were inexcusably rude. Then there was only one stranger remaining, the one on whom her husband's eyes were fixated. She had long ago decided that vanity and jealousy were brothers in arms in her husband, and both fought for dominance in his attitude.

"You must be Lucas," he finally said, as it if was a curse.

Morticia tensed, touched his arm, and then stepped forward. The young boy took a step forward too, like a criminal who was inexplicably drawn to his own gallows. Such was the power Morticia seemed to exercise over all men.

"Hello Lucas," she whispered, "Such a pleasure to meet you."

"Mother!"

The cry from the top of the stairs was all Lucas needed to snap his head towards the voice that had so chided the woman to whom he had been enraptured. Satisfied that he was genuinely interested in Wednesday, Morticia's calm at the boy's evident love for her child was short lived when she saw what her daughter had chosen to wear.

For a second it occurred to her she might not have chosen it at all. It might be that just behind her, in the shadows, an armed gunman was holding her to ransom to wear the ludicrous garment in which she was now bedecked. How pleasant a thought. But no, Wednesday would have murdered him before he had the chance to enforce such horror. There was only one possible explanation but it was the one she most feared.

Her daughter ran down the stairs and the only noise breaking the shocked silence was Pugsley's perverse chuckles of disbelief. Amidst the singular laughter she ran towards Lucas, whose arms were open.

Greeting him with a chaste hug, she pulled him toward the stairs, "Come on. Ring when dinner's ready."

Gomez put a quick hand on her shoulder, fingers grazing noisily across the cheap cerise material, saying nothing about the garment apart from, "Paloma…"

"Father!"

He shook his head. Morticia felt like screaming, just for a moment, out of sheer frustration at being locked out of whatever secret was passing between them. Then she felt herself swallow the urge as she did every time. She had tenacity; it would be enough to get her through this conflict which was building around her.

She watched as Wednesday and Lucas disappeared at the turn of the stairs and into east wing of the house.

"You kids leave the door open!"

The utter banality of the call for chastity from the love-sick young adults shattered the fury inside her to the point where she felt stupid for such anger – Gomez would never do anything beyond trying to solve an issue or problem so it wouldn't upset her. She swallowed her irrationality then too.

She looked at the Mr Beineke but had no time to respond as her husband laughed richly.

"Aha! Don't worry Mal – I can call you Mal? – my daughter has a variety of weapons that will no doubt have your boy running for his life should he try anything," he smiled but he was deadly serious.

And her husband was naïve.

"We had heard she owned a crossbow," Alice said lightly, drowning any opportunity her own husband was about to take to respond.

"A gift from her mother," Gomez came towards her, cupped her face in his hands, "She always knows how to please."

She cocked her eye brow at him as he pulled her mouth towards his. The world stopped to pay homage to the gentleness of his kiss, the love he poured into it. Taking her full weight, slight as she was, in his arms he curled her back and trailed his lips down the line of her neck.

She recalled vaguely being angry at him before and then remembered their guests and her hand tapped his shoulder in spite of her wish to simply disappear into his world of pleasure and indulgence and excitement and joy.

"Gomez, we have guests," she offered as a half-hearted protest.

Still holding her, he turned his face towards the guests, and in particular Mr Beineke, "You must understand… I just can't resist her."

Their faces were white with astonishment. As she straightened up, she was tempted to comment on how it suited them but then she had decided that it just wasn't mannerly.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please review if you don't mind. <strong>


	4. Vows

**Author's note:** Some dialogue has been taken from the musical but it is at a minimum. Thank you for reading and reviewing this story. Please continue to read, review and favourite.

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><p>Having allowed their guests to recover from their shock, and the rest of the family having departed, they found themselves perusing awkward conversation in the large formal parlour of their home. The cocktails became more appealing as the moments of strained conversation ticked by. They spoke of typical things of course; business, the weather, the recent scandal surrounding a Capitol Hill favourite. He was willing the dinner gong and dreading it in equal measure. Whoever had thought it'd be a clever idea to invite them for an hour before dinner was truly hell-bent on seeing him suffer.<p>

Gomez had two drinks and was reaching for a third when he considered just how woeful his ability to hold discussion with middle-America was. It didn't come from snobbery or aloofness but from the fact that they simply weren't his type of people. There was a world of difference between their universe and his. They may have occupied the same place in space and time but that was where their similarities ended. And the Beinekes so obviously felt the same.

"Do you have a little girl's room?"

"We used to," he straightened up his jacket and smiled at his wife, "But we let them all go."

He laughed and she smirked but it didn't appear that their guests found his humour at all appealing. Despite himself, he sobered up quickly when the joke died a merciless death at the hands of his inane guest.

There was another awkward pause, where Mrs Beineke adjusted her skirt and her husband looked wilfully appalled, and then Morticia stood.

"Alice, I will show you."

Gomez stood then too, grateful for his wife's easy intervention.

"And a tour of my den for you," he motioned to Mr Beineke, who smiled awkwardly at the prospect but got to his feet nonetheless.

From his youth he had been fascinated by methods of persuasion. Not just the crude and practical methods either but the subtleties of the acts of coercion and persuasion themselves. He had come to the conclusion that he rather liked them because he himself was anything but subtle. An open book, it was oft commented by those who knew him that you got exactly what you found when it came to Gomez Addams. Tonight though he had to remind himself, as they wound down into the subterranean depths of his home, that this was not the case. He was complicit in a lie tonight.

At the thought of this, as if making an excuse, he turned to his companion. He was desperate to illustrate that his wife was his upmost concern but he knew it was also a desperate plea for some conversation.

"Isn't it nice our wives are getting along?"

"Mhmm," the other man answered but he appeared to be distracted by his picturesque surroundings.

Gomez led him to a bolted and barred door, just past the vault, where he would escape to play with his trains or have a moment to read or admire his latest collector's piece. Inside, in fact, was his latest acquisition. A Russian sapphire knife, with an intricately carved bone handle, had arrived the day before in the hands of his most trusted dealer and was now resting on a plush little cushion atop the desk. He'd only had a moment to admire it the day before and hadn't yet had the time to properly study it.

He presented it to Mal fondly, "What do you think?"

"You seem to have a proclivity for weapons," the man said dryly, taking the knife nonetheless, "It is pretty impressive."

"I have a proclivity for all things dangerous," he smiled, lifting the decanter and the box on his desk, "That's why I married Morticia. Brandy? Cigar?"

"A cigar please."

He liked the man a little more after that. He took two out, trimmed them, and bent to light them in the fire. The comforting fug of cigar smoke filled the room then, and despite his perfidy and panic, he felt himself loosen a little. He stood by the fire and watched as Mal returned the knife to the cushion.

"So your wife lets you collect these things?"

Mal sat down on a straight-backed bench, used for garrotting people in 16th century England. Gomez admired the English; they had persuasion down to a fine art come the reign of Elizabeth the first.

"My wife encourages me to collect these things," he answered, "That chair you're sitting on was a gift from her."

The man ran his fingers along the narrow edges, "Insane."

"I know," Gomez smiled, "We like spoiling each other."

"You seem real sure of yourself, Addams," Mal suddenly said, studying the cigar between his fingers.

Gomez could have been forgiven for being just slightly offended at the accusatory tone. However he was never reactionary in this respect. Instead he merely smiled as the dinner gong rang through the house.

"No, if there's anyone that's sure of themselves tonight it's certainly not me."

-0-

"It's a little more cosy in here," Morticia motioned to the little parlour just off the conservatory.

Decorated originally as a boudoir in which the women from the midnight feasts and raucous parties could touch-up their makeup, it now functioned as a sanctuary in those moments of utter havoc in the Addams household. While not regular, when they did come they were nigh-on exhausting and so Morticia would escape here. It was decorated in scarlets and blacks and it had quickly become her favourite room when she became mistress of the Addams estate. Scanning the shelves of photograph albums – of which there were five bookcases in all – she chose the album from the year of Wednesday's birth.

"Let me show you this."

She sat down beside Alice on the chaise, and pushed the dusty cover open.

She had quite forgotten that some of their unofficial wedding photographs were in here too and it was a pleasant surprise when she opened the page and saw a younger version of herself, bedecked in bridal wear, staring back at her with massive eyes. At her side her husband was not looking at the camera but at her, his coal hair slicked back, his tails impeccable, and his love absolute. Her nerves and his adoration, her seriousness and his excitement, had all been frozen in this one image. She remembered his hand on her back in a reassuring whisper, in a promise of fidelity.

"You're both beautiful," Alice almost whispered, her fingers ghosting over the image, "You look so happy."

"We are," Morticia nodded, smiling genuinely as she ran her fingers over the image.

From under the photograph a yellowing piece of paper slid, slipping off of the book and into her lap.

She recalled the night before their wedding, when she had spoken to him of her nerves and, with an enigmatic smile, he had taken his fountain pen from his pocket and written on the napkin that had been sitting in front of him. She could recall precisely every note of music that danced around the restaurant as she watched him write.

"What are you doing?" She had asked, both amused by his oddness and curious about it too.

"Writing our vows."

She had laughed then and grazed her fingers over his, "We already have our vows."

"Those are the same words every man in this world says to his wife," his eyes were serious and dark, "I will never love you just as another man loves his wife; I will worship you as no man has worshiped a woman before. Surely to speak such common vows is a trifle contrived when they can't possibly convey how much you mean to me."

She had been speechless then as he continued to write, his inky pen scratching over the surface of the paper.

In the present she slid the paper back in but not before Alice could catch her. It was too intimate by far to ever share with someone. This was the dichotomy of their relationship; their affection was public, their all-consuming love was private. She didn't want Alice to know about her fear or her wonder. She didn't want this woman to know how truly consumed she was by the man to whom she was bound.

"What's that?"

"Oh," Morticia stopped, "Just some promises Gomez and I made to each other. We used the traditional vows; love, honour, obey," at this she cocked her eye brow and Alice blushed, "But my husband felt the need to commit to more."

"How romantic! Might I?"

Morticia hesitated, then unfolded the crinkled napkin. She wouldn't tell Alice about his words, or his eyes that night – because to her that was inherently private – but what harm was there in letting her see the love that went between them? No one could truly understand the words on that napkin, after all.

Taking it in her hands reverently, Alice read aloud;

"I promise fully to commit everything I am to you, everything I ever do or say is yours. I promise to make your happiness my priority, your contentment my goal. My soul yours, my life your property. Honesty, with you, will be my priority and passion. My love will come from that."

Alice looked at the paper, then with a little laugh, turned to her.

"You're always honest with each other?"

Morticia hadn't expected this to be the question and for a moment she was a little taken aback. She smiled nonetheless and considered the woman's query, then answered as honestly as she could.

"Yes," she nodded, "Always."

Then, despite her better breeding she found herself asking;

"Isn't that the case-"

She didn't get the chance to finish before Alice snorted in derision.

"My goodness, no," she laughed, "There's no marriage in the world where you're totally honest. Otherwise everyone would be single."

Morticia didn't resent her implication. She didn't need to resent something she had never experienced. She had never once doubted her husband's fidelity to her in all matters big and small and never once had she kept anything from him or lied to him about anything. Instead she simply smiled.

"You strike me as a clever woman," Alice said, not unkindly, "And you really think that?"

"Yes," Morticia answered, "I do. Secrets are dangerous and we never keep them, well, not from each other anyway."

Alice's smile faltered a little.

"Well it does not work like that in the Bieneke household," she shrugged and her tone was a tad defensive, "All hell would break loose if I started telling the truth."

She turned an angry face on Mortica but, reminding Morticia quite succinctly of herself, her face almost seemed wiped of emotion and was replaced by a saccharine smile a moment later.

"But anyway-"

The dinner gong, clanging through the room, interrupted her.

-0-

Wednesday pulled back from him, their knees touching still though and their heads pressed together. The only noise was their breathing and the creaking, moving house around them. Her bedroom door was closed, despite her future father-in-law's wishes.

"Your house, your room," he laughed a little, "Is so cool."

"But not my family?"

She backed away a little to look at him. He looked so incredibly out of sync in these surroundings with his Oxford sweater and his sandy coloured chinos and his blonde, corn-coloured hair. He looked so painfully normal that she was shocked that he had fallen in love with her for a moment. Then she remembered his love of dark poetry and his goal of being a pathologist and remembered keenly why they had so much in common.

"Hey," he moved from her bed to look around the room, "You never even let me meet them, not properly."

"That's a good thing," she answered despite herself and angry at herself too.

"I'm convinced that's not true," he lifted the skull that sat on her desk and in who's eyes she held her pens.

She wanted to snatch it from him; it had been a gift from her father when she went through her phase of wanting to be a writer. He had bought her an entire new desk and beautiful ivory parchment and a silver pen and that skull because he was convinced she was going to be an award-winning writer who spun dark, gothic tales. She had read him her stories and he had listened enraptured, gasping and laughing at all the right parts. She had grown out of it of course, and he had laughed, and indulged her next whim just as equally as the one before.

"My mother would have tried to seduce you."

She didn't say it with bitterness or nastiness but he turned to look at her, his face incredulous.

"Not because she meant to," she quickly amended, stepping off the bed to join him, "Just because that's what she does."

He shrugged, "I think they'll like me, Wednesday, and it offends me that you don't."

"I don't think that," she answered defensively, "I told my father."

He spun on his heels, the skull still in his hands, "You what? We swore we'd tell them together, Wednesday."

She felt suddenly chastened, "I-"

"You promised."

His disappointment was a wound in itself.

"I was desperate," she muttered, "I am sorry."

"No wonder he wanted to kill me," he answered, "You should have seen the way he was looking at me. Thank God you distracted him with that ridiculous dress. Which, by the way, is weird looking on you. Why are you dressing like someone who is not you? I mean, you look good in anything but…"

He shrugged, "I love you with your black dress and your red lipstick. I fell in love with you, as crazy as you are. And I'll love your family, even if they're crazy too."

She just stared, not sure of what to say next. She realised it wasn't Lucas' reaction she was frightened of. She was frightened of her family's reaction; the people to whom she was so intimately tied that their opinion meant everything. And no one's opinion meant more than her mother's. It was simply terrible how much she wanted her mother to approve of her choice to marry this boy that she physically balked at it.

"Why don't you want them to know?"

"I don't know," she lied, "I don't know but it's got nothing to do with you."

"I want to believe you," he said, "I do."

She went towards him then and, just as the gong rang, reached forward for a kiss.

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	5. Revelations

**Thank you very much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter. Thank you, also, for the feedback.**

**Please continue to read and review. **

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><p>Morticia and Alice found themselves sitting in the dining room with the rest of the family and Mal. Initially Gomez had been there but he had gone off to fetch Wednesday and Lucas. After ten minutes of waiting, mama getting rather truculent in respect to her smorgasbord growing cold, and Pubert deciding it was high time he had been fed, she left the table to find them.<p>

Just outside the library they were in conference, their heads bent conspiratorially. She moved quietly towards the little enclave, the highest of the heads her husband's salt and pepper hair, his arms round both of the young people on either side. While she made no noise, he obviously felt her presence and his head snapped up.

"Querida!"

His excitement at her appearance wasn't wholly believable, even though she wanted to believe it entirely. Wednesday averted her eyes, suddenly enraptured by the parquet flooring beneath her feet.

She looked at them and then to her husband, and tried vainly to keep the accusation from her voice.

"What were you discussing?"

"Nothing darling," he strode towards her, "We were just coming."

Her intelligence was so insulted that she genuinely had no response. She just cocked an eye brow. He took her hand in his but her fingers were limp with fury. Though tempted to pull her hand away she resisted; she didn't like to fuel a fire when it seemed that it might be disastrous.

"Honestly mother, you don't have to know everything."

There was not tone to her daughter's words; no anger or insolence. Instead it was just a statement, which made it all the worse when she heard the unjust accusation behind them.

"No," she struggled to maintain her calm, her mouth curving into a forced smile," I absolutely don't."

When her husband squeezed her hand again, she pulled away and walked ahead.

She ate little at dinner, though in all fairness she rarely ate much more than enough to survive, and her stomach churned with something unspeakable. She could give no name to the feeling which poisoned her gut and her mind but she knew that she was being excluded, demeaned by those she was closest to. It could not be named because she had never experienced it before. It was nameless and shapeless yet all consuming. She felt tears, hot and humiliating, pricking the back of her eyes. She could not, would not, let them fall.

Across the table her daughter rarely looked at her but when she did her eyes were wide and black with terror. The motherly concern which pooled in Morticia was soured by her anger and though she couldn't possibly ignore the feeling she desperately wanted to. Evidently there was something hugely wrong and, as a mother, Morticia just knew that if Wednesday told her she would be able to make it better. She had always encouraged her children to be honest and open and up until this point her strategy had never failed her.

It was an assault to realise that even the bonds of storge had their limits. She felt a rope snap inside her as her daughter harboured her first secret and severed that connection.

Perhaps mothering children was just a series of deaths; one small death after another. For the first time ever she despised a death which was unwelcomed and unwanted. It made her feel uneven and blunt as she looked upon her first born.

As Lurch served the dessert and coffee, her eyes were drawn to her daughter's again. Unguarded in a moment and alight with something she had never seen before, they danced with lies.

"The game," she heard herself say, before she truly realised what she was saying, as she looked into those dark eyes that were too like her own for comfort.

Her husband glanced at her from his seat beside her at the top of the table, his head twisting from Mal as his countenance turned stormy. The shock on his face almost brought a laugh to her lips; _what_, she felt like asking_, you thought I was above using familial tradition as means of manipulation? _At that she almost scoffed.

"No, Tish. I don't think-"

The clatter of antique silver forks against bone-china signalled the shock of those around the table at his refusal. His cigar was clamped between his teeth and he almost squirmed in his seat.

"I do," she said breezily, motioning with a deadly hand towards Lurch who held the chalice, then turning to address Alice, "You see I married into this family but I've rather come to enjoy the traditions of the Addamses."

Alice smiled politely but vaguely, not realising she was a casualty of a very private battle.

"My husband," she took the heavy vessel which Lurch handed to her, "Knows it far better than me though. He should like to explain it I'm sure."

"Mother," Wednesday hissed, "I don't think-"

"No," she tilted her head, her whisper as deafening as a roar, "You haven't thought at all. Wine, Lurch."

"Darling," she turned to Gomez, "It's only proper that you play first."

Despite his flightiness her husband was nothing if not a good sport. His pleading look was nearly her undoing but he'd forgotten a vital aspect of who she was when he'd decided to deviate from the unwritten constitution of their union; she was as determined as someone with nothing to live for when it came to the upper hand.

"But I always go first," her youngest said merrily, lying across the wide table to clutch at the chalice.

"Not tonight Pubert," she stood up and offered Gomez the cup, "You first…mon cher."

Her husband coughed roughly and grasping the knot of his tie with two fingers, pulled sharply on it. His forehead glistened with sweat. The only people privy to the conflict of the moment, as well as her and her husband, was the young couple, and the boy and Wednesday grew smaller in their chairs; simply confirming for her that they were keeping a secret.

Her husband took the chalice in hand and gave a swift, nigh on incoherent explanation of the game before he gulped from it as a man dying of thirst. He spoke of the rules; take a drink, disclose a secret. Then he sucked in a breath.

"I have…a confession."

Morticia's eyes weren't trained on him as he spoke, in fact they were trained on her daughter. She had been the custodian of Wednesday's upbringing, the documenter of her history, her care-taker. Though her little girl never once cried, she was the one who woke with her in the night nonetheless and the one who nursed her and loved her. She had discovered her daughter's tells and habits and banked each and every one as a little miracle of knowledge over the years. She knew that when she was under pressure, Wednesday blushed a furious red which clashed remarkably with her nacre skin. Right now, a blush was dancing over her cheeks in the most obscene manner; giving her away despite her tight mouth and unblinking eyes.

She turned to him as he continued.

"My confession is – it is that I am madly, desperately in love with my wife," he smiled, though it was watery, "And that's it."

She inclined her head for she had no other possible reaction at her disposal. She already knew that, she already expected that. She had though he might bend and break; so this secret, she suddenly realised, must be extraordinary. She swallowed.

"That's hardly a confession," Pugsley, who had been almost suspiciously quiet all evening said, eyeing his father from over his cigar, "Everyone knows that."

"But it's always good to share," Gomez laughed awkwardly.

"I agree," she couldn't believe she was lying open the freshest wound in her marriage for the public to view, "I think you could do better."

"I really don't think I could," he shook his head as he sat down, his hurt evident.

For a moment she wondered if she had turned into one of those women she laughed at with her friends. Those women whose suspicions were so fully formed and fantastical that they created whole affairs and infidelities where their husbands played the role of the main antagonists. Those women who checked their husband's credit card bills and movements, who hated their secretaries and their assistants. She wondered if she'd finally given in to societal pressure to be the woman who naturally, inherently, religiously did not trust her mate.

But no, she was a better judge of her own character than that. She was a better judge of his character than that. She was convinced that he was hiding something from her.

She leaned over, her chin brushing his collar and her lips hovering next to his ear, "You disappointed me."

He swallowed, "Don't do that…"

"I did nothing," she turned to her daughter, "Wednesday?"

Her daughter visibly squirmed, "I'm just going to-"

"Weds," the boy pleaded, his hair flopping onto his forehead as he leaned forward.

"Please, go on," Morticia continued, picturing herself as a bullet hurtling towards a target with no way of stopping.

It was a self-serving catastrophe that was happening before her and yet she was guiding it to its conclusion as if it were a trifling matter.

"Tish…Don't do this," beside her he was pleading.

At that moment Alice, who had been a bystander in this cryptic exchange, began to cough so frantically that her face was purple almost instantly. Alice snatched the chalice from Wednesday, and then with a scraping and scattering of chairs Morticia's sons left the table, running for the door before Lurch could shut it behind their retreating forms.

Delightful, she thought, as a tiny glass vial – once full of that dangerous libation Acrimonium – rolled to a stop on the floor under her patent stilletos.

She supressed a laugh of horror as the door slammed shut.

-0-

"I think it's time-"

"No Mal."

The voice was hardly recognisable.

Gomez was a believer in all things dark and sinister but he was of the understanding that possessions were rare and few. He was convinced though that one was taking place directly in front of his eyes. Alice was on a rhapsodic rant and in spite of the fact he knew he was all but doomed to divorce, and a life of lonely drinking before an untimely death at the tender age of sixty ( a funeral which his children would only attend out of nobles oblige rather than love) he was nonetheless amused by her performance.

Alice stood at the other end of the rich mahogany dining table, her eyes trained on her husband. Gomez felt sorry for Mal; there was nothing worse than when a glare of such utter magnitude was levelled directly at you.

"Where did you go? Where did you go?" She asked as her voice slurred and slipped from seductive to drunk in all of one question, "Where is my Mal with the rock t-shirt and the bandana and the wild attitude? Huh?"

Next to leave with her dignity was her cardigan and, when she started untying that ungodly pussy-bow from her blouse, even Gomez started to feel he was dancing on the border of voyeurism.

"Mom! Please," the boy gasped as he banged his head off the table in a slow, methodical fashion.

Alice crawled onto the surface, pushing Morticia's antique dining set onto the floor where it shattered plate after bowl, and then tossed the candelabra so it clattered off the sculpture of Joan of Arc in the corner, "Where did it go Mal? Our marriage. When was the last time you even took me in your arms, made love to me? Huh, huh?"

He stole a glance at Morticia, who was sitting back watching as if she were presiding over a ringed circus. She was suppressing a disastrous smile from her red lips and for a moment, in both a seductive revelation and a terrible reality, it occurred to him how cruel she could be. He was about to plead with her when with a thud Alice passed out right in the middle of the table, directly in front of his wife.

She merely cocked an eye brow at the woman's prone form.

"My god Addams," Mal pushed himself out of his seat so swiftly that it toppled back and crashed onto the floor, "What is wrong with this family?"

Gomez wanted to defend them, and he would have been right, but he seemed to be putting out fires all over the place tonight. His words failed him then.

"Lucas," Mal turned to the young boy, "Get your mother. We're leaving. We're not used to these weirdoes or their New York ways. We're just normal people!"

Gomez felt the boy was being punished for the fault of the adults who had raised him. He stood up, extending his hands out to Mr Beineke.

"I don't think it's Lucas' fault," he tried to reason with Mal, "Come on-"

Morticia gave a mirthless little laugh.

At this Wednesday spun and glared at her mother, "I knew you'd do this!"

"I would do what, Wednesday?"

From her little laugh to the deadly tone she employed now, the whole timbre of the room changed. Their daughter shirked away but she turned to him before she retreated fully.

"Thank you anyway father," Wednesday fished for the chain under her collar, her hands frantic.

In the moments before she produced the dreaded bauble of commitment, his marriage flashed before him a glorious zoetrope of images. He wanted to bank them all because after this there was no possible addition he could make to them. He had almost accepted it. Even at that, he shook his head helplessly at his daughter.

"Thank you father?" his wife turned on him, like a snake about to strike, as she repeated her daughter's words, "Thank you for what?"

He wanted to tell her how gorgeous she was when she was angry but even he recognised how highly inappropriate that was. Instead he stayed his hand.

"Tish, I –"

"We're getting married! Lucas and I are engaged."

The declaration did not come as a surprise but nonetheless he felt a relief he did not expect when it was finally aired. He slumped down into his seat and let his head fall into his hands. There was a protracted silence in which the world seemed to stop. He could hear Tish get to her feet beside him and the incoherent spluttering of Mr Beineke.

He should have reacted but he was already mourning whatever was to come as a result of his treachery; he'd already bypassed anger and regret. He had lied to her and now it was time to face the consequences of that.

"You knew about this?"

Like a snake, it was a deadly hiss rather than an actual question.

"Yes," he looked up to her, "I did and I am sorry."

Morticia's face was a mask of nothingness, which was worse than anger or disappointment. She pressed her lips together and sat back down, her back straight and rigid, and said nothing. He reached out to touch her shoulder but she inched away, leaving nothing but air for him to caress apologetically.

"Ha! No secrets," Alice lifted her chin and turned a manic face on his wife, drool slithering from the corner of her mouth, "Not so happy now, are we?"

Then her head bounced back onto the table and she let out a sinister little giggle.

"How on earth do you plan to support yourself?" Mal rounded on the young couple, "Not one penny of your trust fund will be going to this trumped up vampire!"

Morticia stood swifter than ever he had witnessed before, "Don't speak of my daughter like that."

Wednesday blushed a deep red and her eyes were glassy with angry tears, "I-" she fumbled, looking towards her mother, "I…didn't...We will-"

"I'm going to get a job," Lucas grasped Wednesday's hand, "I'm going to-"

"What? Writing poetry?" Mal slammed a fist down onto the table, "No I don't think so boy! You're just a child and you'll be damned if you're marrying into this family."

"But I –"

"Fine!" Wednesday cried, "Fine. We'll just do as we please. We'll never speak to any of you again!"

"You will not," Gomez finally found the strength to say, "You won't. We'll talk through this. Mrs Beineke is in no fit state to leave, if you don't mind my saying, and I think the best thing for all of us would be a few hours sleep."

"I don't think so," Mal grabbed his wife roughly from the table, ignoring her little yelp of pain, then pulled his son by the arm, wrenching him from a frantic Wednesday. "I'm not staying in this nightmare any longer than I need to."

Fester made it out before them though and, always one for mediating conflicts, he began smashing the lights and windscreen of their car to smithereens with a tyre-iron. Little stars of glass flew all over the gravel and caught the dim light from the house, and they all just stood watching him while Mal Beineke cried over his Buick and propped Alice up against the porch wall as he tried to salvage his car. When Fester was done and Mal had sunk to his knees in front of the destroyed vehicle, Morticia simply turned away and made her way back inside.

He followed behind but with a withering look she turned on her heels and shook her head.

There were two men on their knees in the gravel by that point, one facing the house, one facing the car.

Fester was still chucking manically as he turned to the sobbing Mal, "And if you try to phone a cab, I'll cut the wires."

At least, Gomez thought to himself as he hunched on the gravel, he could always rely on his brother.

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	6. Contradictions

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><p>She used a swift finger to pull the book entitled 'Greed' out from the shelf, letting it spring back into place as the bookcase swung open and she was faced with consuming darkness. It was a relief to step within, to be enfolded in safety.<p>

She heard him cry her name before it slammed shut and was about to turn, when she realised it would be impossible to face her husband. Instead she proceeded forward, past the myriad of dangling chains, and down onto a staircase which spiralled into the depths of their home and to the lake beneath. She made her way to his den and closing the heavy door behind her, sat down behind his desk. In here it was so peacefully quiet that the only noise she could hear was the rage rushing between her ears.

A new knife, presented lovingly on a display cushion, sat atop the surface. She lifted it and examined it. The sapphire was beautifully cut and polished, making for a sharp tip which she dug into the pad of her thumb until a little rivulet of scarlet traced its way back along the blade to the hilt.

She didn't even flinch, such was her strength in the face of pain.

She knew and didn't know why she'd chosen this room. After all, the Addams estate was full of places to disappear to. That was the wonder of this vast area of land; there were limitless possibilities for adventure. It seemed right to come here, in a poetic way, and defile that which he held so obviously more sacred over her. More practically, and less poetically, he would never think to look for her here.

Married! Her little girl. She laughed and it bounced around the sweating walls of the chamber, rustling the peeling wallpaper and returning to her as a curse and a cry all in one.

Her anger came from a strange realisation that she'd already decided Lucas was the right person for her daughter, yet no one gave her credit for it. Instead they assumed some sort of insane jealousy or cruel disbelief.

Was this really what those who loved her thought? Was she deserving of such a monstrous reputation?

She thought of her own marriage and its origins in the seedy affair on which she'd embarked, betraying her sister and breaking her mother's heart in the process. When had she ever claimed rights to judgement over romantic decisions following that? Never once had she made any values based on anything other than her belief she had no right to interfere in anyone's relationship.

She had, of course, been afraid to tell her own parents but for very different – and real – reasons. Her reasons came flooding back to her, and they made sense when she thought of this evening's situation but they skewed her narrative and she hated them for it.

She stood up and went towards the intricate and sprawling train set which dominated the centre of the room. It didn't just stay on the table on which it had been mounted but climbed up onto the ceiling, suspended from steel wires, and wound its way around the chamber. It was another one of his joys and he had spent a lot of time, effort and money building the little bridges and hills. Gomez took pleasure, joy, in everything. Though his trains often soothed his panic as well. She picked up a diesel engine – one he'd had since he was a boy. It was a scarlet steam engine replica, which he never used now but kept nearby nonetheless. Placing it back down she resisted the urge to toss it at the wall, not because she didn't really want to but because she considered herself well above the mundane reaction of ruining something he cared about.

She sat back down, this time on the garrotting bench she had bought him a few Christmases ago. Had it been only last week they'd played their own amended version of the Reformation on this very device? The leather straps, hanging limply on either side, might as well have witnessed their passion an eternity ago rather than just last week. It too shared her misery at the developments of the last hour.

It seemed to induce her tears in an almost intimate way, coaxing them from her. The memories and heat, the laughter and honesty coaxed them too; seducing them to fall.

They fell angrily, unwanted, creeping on to her cheeks and slipping down to dangle on her patrician jaw line. Though few, they were a humiliation all of their own as they came. She swept them away with the back of her hand but more kept coming.

She hated them because they were a symbol of her weakness. A symbol of the vulnerability to him which she could never quite escape.

-0-

"Wednesday! You shouldn't have told them like that," Lucas cried, dashing after her, "I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving without speaking to them."

She turned to him, her crossbow clutched in her hands, "Why do you care so much?"

He pushed out his hands, "Because you do! You love your family, there's no way you really feel like this."

She felt rage stirring in her gut.

"You don't know anything about me," she hissed, his shocked face only driving her on.

"What?"

His hurt was evident yet she was spewing forth her anger. She felt like a cornered animal and, having done wrong, she just wanted to push on further with her wrongdoing until it seemed like a catastrophe. So this was a self-immolation, a way to intensify her pain.

They stood staring at each other and as they listened they could hear his parents arguing from the house beyond.

"Listen, listen to what we've done," he cried, "Just listen!"

"It's their fault we're like this," she answered, "It's their fault we couldn't tell them in the first place."

"No," he answered, and his tone was icy, "That is your fault."

She loved Lucas to the point where it was almost unbelievable. She loved his smile and his laugh and his fascination with dead bodies. She loved him for his honesty but at this moment, she hated him for it too.

There was no way she could tell him he was right. There was no way that she could accept this stupid pink dress and her childish actions and her trenching of her parents' marriage as her fault.

"Fine," she said quietly, "If it's my fault…you won't want me."

"I didn't say that," he cried, "I love you!"

She didn't turn to speak to him again and instead she sped up to escape from him. She was surprised to realise she was far more flight than fight this evening. She ran, cross bow tied over her chest, to the first place where she felt she would be able to get her head together. She found herself at the clearing, on the east side of the estate, where she had played with her father when she was little and first learned to throw a knife. When she was small he had lashed heavy ropes to an ancient branch and made a swing for her and it still hung there, unused. Never once had they discussed taking it down; not because it was of any use to anyone now but because it was a symbol of a quickly diminishing part of their life.

White shafts of moonlight made violent slashes across the darkness of the clearing, striping the grass white and green. A shadow, quickly emerging as the man who had raised her, was swaying absently on the swing. The smell of bitter tobacco floated towards her, swirling from the orange glow of the cigar hanging from his mouth and glinting like a firefly.

"Hello darling."

She wanted him to sound more annoyed but he was inanely pleasant. Pleasant and kind without any expectation carried in his words. Obviously this made her feel worse than she wanted to.

"Hello daddy," she whispered, but her voice carried across the space between them.

"You haven't called me that in a long time," he laughed quietly.

"You are my daddy," she answered, a little defensively.

She slipped down the trunk of the tree, curling her legs up to her chin as she sat on the damp grass at his feet.

"We've really done it this time," she said.

His laugh was more like a bark, "You can say that again."

"I am sorry-"

"I know," he shook his head, then patted the top of hers, "I know that. I made the decision to go along with this and, well, look what's happened. I could have said no to you but I didn't. It's nothing to do with you…not really."

"You're too forgiving," she answered.

"A criticism?"

"No, an observation."

He was silent for a moment, though he continued to tilt his feet up and down to make the swing sway and she watched his brogues as they moved hypnotically. She remembered him as the hero of her childhood, ebony haired and tanned skin, bouncing and back flipping his way around the clearing much to her amusements. Then he took her upon his knee and punted the swing toward the heavens, laughing just as loudly and merrily as her. The recollection was disconnected; the Wednesday of that memory, happy and carefree, was not the Wednesday she had grown up with. Her father was the only one who seemed to create the childishness of that memory in her. Once, at one of their lavish parties and before she was banished to her bed, he has scooped her into his arms and danced her round and round the ballroom and she felt like she would fly. He had always been so much fun, so full of love, so utterly grateful for everything she was.

She stood up and, leaving her crossbow at the base of the tree and motioning him to move over, squeezed herself into the small space at his side. It was a tight fit but they managed when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she tilted her head to rest it there. She breathed in the familiar scent of tobacco and fresh silk, of his aftershave just under it all. Regardless of how foolish or cruel she had been she felt completely safe just here.

"How are you and-"

"He's left," she interrupted, her voice cracking just a little, "It is over."

He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, "That makes me incredibly sad."

The sincerity in his voice was palpable.

"It does?"

"You loved him," he answered, kissing her temple, "And he loved you. When two people who love each other cannot be together that is so very sad. Trust me, I know."

"You are so selfless," she turned her face and pressed it into his chest, embarrassment overwhelming her.

"No I am not," he muttered, "No. I couldn't be angrier, more furious that a boy wants to steal you. I couldn't be happier you've found love. I couldn't feel less selfishly conflicted if I tried. I am a crucible of contradictory emotions."

"But you wanted it for me. You wanted _me_ to be happy," she sighed.

"Yes," he smiled, kissing her forehead, "Yes and I don't want it for you. I'm happy and sad. It's a father's prerogative to be happy and sad for his daughter, I believe."

She felt emotion bubbling in her then, like hot white mercury in the pit of her stomach, and she turned her face away.

"It is alright," he soothed, "I promise you."

"What if she doesn't forgive us?" She whispered her question as if it were a terrible secret.

"She will."

She knew when her father was lying. She didn't have the heart to really share this observation though and she knew that to voice it was unfair. They simply sat as he took soothing pulls on his cigar and rocked them both back and forth.

In front of them a figure had appeared in the clearing, hair messy and eyes frantic. She turned her face into her father's chest and groaned. Facing Lucas right now was amongst the least of the things she wanted to do.

"Lucas," her father said into the distance, "Come here."

"Father, please…" she whispered.

While she refused to show here face she felt him shake his head.

"Lucas, I don't know if you've met my daughter Wednesday. She's the best thing that will ever happen to you," he prized her hand from where she had balled it in his shirt, "Please, don't mess it up."

"Sir I-"

"Don't," her father stood up, "Let's ensure you survive tonight."

Lucas laughed awkwardly, then stepped towards her. She finally looked at him. His eyes were red and wild looking and, dishevelled and covered in dust, he looked handsome. She smiled despite herself as he opened his arms and she left the swing and fell into them.

She wasn't sure when her father had slipped away but by the time they had shared and broken and remade and reiterated their promises, he was gone.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please, please review! <strong>


	7. Northern Lights

**Author's note: Thank you so very very much for the positive feedback. I am really pleased so many people are enjoying this story and the constructive nature of the feedback has really helped me refine my writing. **

**This is where you can choose to leave it and jump to 'Paris' ( an AU of this story) or stay with this chapter AND story, which follows the plot of the musical and does not deviate. There will be more chapter following this one which re-envision the musical. **

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><p>Gomez watched the young couple for a moment, remembering with spiky fondness the first big argument he'd had with his wife. A laugh gathered in his chest as he turned away and made towards the house; yes, to think of them arguing was funny. It was such a rarity that when it did happen it took everyone they knew by surprise. He thought of his friend Williamson, a rake and a scoundrel, who'd once commented that his arguing with Morticia was like viewing the Northern Lights – dazzling and rare. He hummed softly as he wound his way through the stones, brushing his hands over the lower ones as he went. There was a calm in his step and actions, regardless of the fact he was standing on the edge of a matrimonial precipice. The peace came from his relief that at least his daughter would be alright and her relationship would he happy.<p>

Oh, what he would give right now for such simplicity in his own relationship!

The house was completely quiet and he assumed the Beinekes had been given a room and retired to it - even in her worst state Morticia would not have failed to be the perfect hostess. Lurch was nowhere to be found so locking the door behind him he climbed the stairs, walking slowly.

He stalled at the beginning of the corridor though as the silence was shattered by the grating tone of voices in conflict. The Beinekes. At that moment the door to his left burst open and the cry of "If you want to be a tool, go sleep in the shed!" carried Mal out of the room. Shrinking against the wall and hoping not to be seen appeared not to work as Mal came level with him.

The other man was panting, grasping his jacket, and his eyes were dancing with fire.

"Haven't you been thrown out too Addams?"

"Not yet," Gomez laughed his response but it was flat.

For a moment Mal's eyes flashed with empathy but it was quickly dispersed in favour of rage. He shook his head and shrugged.

"Morticia's never thrown me out before but she might," he reached out and touched the other man's shoulder, "In that case I imagine the settees in my study are quite welcoming. You take the one on the left…who knows, I might see you in a while."

Mal just growled and sloped away towards the stairs.

Gomez turned and, facing the double doors at the far end of the corridor, headed towards his bedroom.

Inside it was warm and as always the fire was lit. The room was missing its most vital component though and he was disappointed to find she wasn't there. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began untying his shoes. Throwing them to the side he flopped back onto the bed and crawled over to her side, where he could watch the fire dancing in the hearth.

"I'm an idiot Tish," he said into the flames, "I really am."

From behind him he heard her footsteps and then turned as she emerged from her dressing room. He'd not thought to check there and in hindsight it felt stupid. She was wearing her dressing gown; an elaborate and delicate confection of miles of lace and silk. It was the dressing gown she wore when protest was to be brooked. His heart sank a little.

"I know you are."

Her voice was cold and flat and no more than a whisper and she turned round and went in again. He hopped off the bed as hope flickered inside him. At least she was speaking to him. He went towards the dressing room but didn't cross the threshold; he rarely did unless he was invited. Instead he leaned his shoulder against the jamb and watched her as she went through her routine. She was applying her hand cream, rubbing it in furiously.

"I am sorry," he said, "Let me take you in my arms."

"No," she said bluntly.

"Tish, please…" he went to step but regressed when she stared at him so forcefully in the mirror that he thought it might crack.

"Get out," she said quietly, "Get out."

"Morticia! You cannot possibly mean that!"

She pivoted on the stool and faced him.

"You lost all right to predict what I do and do not mean when you chose to lie to me," she leaned forward, "Get out, Gomez, or I will never break breath to you again."

He actually recoiled at the venom in her voice and eyes.

"Morticia, please," he pleaded as she turned back to her mirror, "We've never left it like this!"

"You've never lied," she spoke to his reflection.

Her delivery of this coup de grace seemed almost to be a pleasure to her. Inside his chest, his heart grew frigid and sharp at the edges.

He stalled for a moment before turning from her, collecting his shoes, and going from the room because the truth was just too much to bare.

-0-

Morticia watched his retreating back, surprised and relieved that he didn't put up more of a fight. She couldn't decide what was more upsetting; his capitulation or his perfidy. She had pushed and pushed and pushed and he'd given in and now she felt doubly cheated by his understanding of her.

It made her furious.

She had left his den a while before. She had cried her ire out entirely and the room had witnessed such a spectacle of emotion that she felt embarrassed to remain in it.

She stood up from her dresser and pushing on to her tiptoes she reached for the portmanteau that lived on the top of her armoire. She pulled it down, pulling a plume of dust with it. She took it into the bedroom and throwing it on the bed, let the lid bounce open. She undressed, redressed, and packed within thirty minutes. All the while there was a relief and panic coursing through her, but galvanized by her sudden decision, she felt there was no way to turn back.

Gomez Addams, she thought, be damned.

-0-

Though Gomez had intended to go to the study Mal was already snoring on the left-hand couch and he seemed so truly exhausted that it seemed unfair to consider disturbing him. In reality the thought of facing the other man was dreadful too and the possibility of having to explain why he'd been cast to the couch was even more terrible. He pulled the door quietly behind him and slipped into the library. Lurch was there, reading a book which reminded him of just how odd this night was. He slumped down into the seat in front of the window as Lurch groaned a 'hello.'

"Hello," Gomez answered, tipping his head forward.

The butler just groaned and went back to 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'.

He looked at the photograph on the side table, one in a collection of many, which often caught his eye. It was a picture taken of them on honeymoon. In it they were standing in front of the iron gates of Per Lachaise Cemetery. She was smiling away from him, clamping her ostentatious picture hat onto her head as the wind threatened to steal it away. It was a rare and uncalculated smile from her, a moment of true joy as the camera captured something entirely unusual in his wife. He was reaching for the brim of the hat, not looking towards the camera but towards her instead. They had been so young and carefree and ready for the world; a moment of ludus captured on celluloid. It was taunting him now.

It struck him them how impossible it was to return to the past. To recreate it meant it always lost its lustre and never once had they been so afraid of the road ahead had they deemed it sensible to turn on their heels and retrace their steps. Up until now, of course.

Now he would do anything to retrace his steps. Thing jumped up onto his shoulder, gave a companionable squeeze, then settled warmly there. Thing had always been his pet and, in fact, had been jealous of Morticia at first. He kept a respectful distance now from the matriarch of the house, as all creatures did when overwhelmed by her.

"Hand me the phone Lurch," he said quietly, "I'm taking her away somewhere. Somewhere I can apologise properly."

The Butler did as he was bid but just as Gomez was about to lift the receiver Fester dashed into the room. He was heaving and breathless, bent over and clutching his legs from exertion.

"Morticia's walking out!"

It took him a moment to comprehend and before he fully understood he actually laughed, "What?"

"She's at the gates," Fester puffed, "Gomez she's leaving you."

He was incredulous with disbelief at his brother's words.

"Surely not?"

He got to his feet, flying out of the door and past his brother. He was grateful, at this moment, for his athleticism. The gravel was unbearably loud under his feet as he pounded down the seemingly endless driveway. By the time he reached the iron gates sweat was gathering around his neck and on his forehead.

She stood just outwith the gate, her sleek shadow silhouetted by the moonlight. At her feet there was a sizeable case, and she had draped her favourite fur coat over her shoulders. She really did mean to leave.

His heart was burning with desperation, and it pounded against his breast plate. He thought it might split free from his chest and burst through his sinew and skin; he was meeting his death in the worst possible way.

And in no way was it as beautiful as he had envisioned it.

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><p>Thank you for taking time to read this story. Please review because I really enjoy feedback.<p> 


	8. A Study in the Study

**Author's note: Thank you, as always, for sticking with this story. I love writing it.**

**Reviews do make me incredibly happy because, despite how I try, there will always be errors. It's good to know they are there so I might fix them. **

**You didn't think I'd resolve the issues of our favourite couple first, did you? Of course not. What fun would be in that? Here's our second favourite then. **

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><p>Wednesday pulled Lucas by the hand, trying as swiftly as possible to run past the rooms in the bottom floor of the house. Their goal was the staircase at the far end of the hall and it seemed to be a million miles away.<p>

She hated to admit it but with him, selfishly, all other problems from the night melted away. She looked forward to the sanctuary of her bedroom and lying in his arms and right now she wanted to condemn all other issues to oblivion. Her parents, it seemed, would rekindle and Lucas' parents would continue in the vacuum of their marriage and everything would be blissful for them.

Giggling, tripping over themselves and each other, they were lost in the moment and dashed past each room until they heard groaning coming from her father's study. Stopping at the door because Wednesday couldn't resist curiosity, she peered inside. Lucas' father was sitting with his face buried in his hands. She had to concede to sympathy in that moment even if the man had been nothing but rude to her since they had met just hours before. He was curled over, his fingers clutched around his balding head, and the groans were quickly developing into tears.

"Dad," Lucas pushed past her softly and went towards his father.

The older man lifted his head to look at his son. He quickly swiped the tears that had just started their journey down his cheeks and puffed out an aggressive breath.

"Did mom throw you out…again?"

"You know about that?"

He sounded utterly defeated.

"Dad," Lucas sat beside him, "You were on the couch most mornings when I got up."

Mal Beineke shook his head then cast his eyes towards her, where she had stayed at the door. She felt like shrinking back into herself. Her hand went naturally to her crossbow.

"Wednesday, I am sorry about earlier."

That she didn't expect; her fingers loosened.

"It's alright Mr Beienke-"

"It isn't," he interrupted, "I didn't mean to be so rude to your family. It's just…"

He shook his head and stared into the fire. Lucas shifted beside him and then looked at her for help. She just shrugged her shoulders. Was he expecting her to have experience in putting the pieces of broken marriages together? She could count on one pearly hand the number of times she'd actually witnessed her parents arguing and even at that, she'd never felt the need to fix it. It always seemed to fix itself. At this thought a lump formed in her throat. Above them, no doubt, her parents were thrashing out an argument of epic proportions and she was to blame.

"Dad," Lucas ended the awkward pause, "What can I do?"

"You see," he continued to stare at the fire, "You think it'll always be the same. Fun, carefree…all the time. Then money and kids and you just…you let it go. I mean we haven't…"

"Dad, just go and speak to her," Lucas' voice was louder than he obviously meant it to be, "She must have loved you…once."

Mr Beineke laughed bitterly, "Once, maybe."

"Mr Beieneke-"

"Call me Mal," he asked her quietly, "You might as well."

She could not quite believe she was speaking.

She nodded, "Mal. I think you're giving up too easily. Didn't you hear Mrs Beineke's speech at dinner?"

She realised she'd miscalculated when he groaned loudly again. She never had been good with words. Her mother was loquacious and rhapsodical, her father well-versed and clever. Words to do with chemistry or torture she could find, use, manipulate; words concerning emotion were beyond her.

Lucas gave her a pleading look.

"Sorry…I didn't mean to remind you. It's just that her speech," she struggled on, "She_ obviously_ still loves you. She obviously still…wants you."

Lucas looked at her and was evidently horrified at the implication. She cocked an eyebrow, disappointed at his prudery. In a house with her parents she'd never been foolish enough to believe in storks and cabbage patches and loveless marriages. She'd never been clever enough to realise the value of it either; until now.

"You'd be crazy, truly crazy," she suddenly said, passionately and without calculation, "To let your marriage die. It's worth more than that."

The man looked at her, his eyes widening considerably. Then he stood up. There was a vigour about him in that moment that she hadn't imagined he was capable of. In that moment, in fact, he would even pass as handsome.

"No," he said, "You're right. Right, thanks."

He grasped his son's shoulder, then strode towards her. Inherently her hand flew towards the weapon draped around her and in one delicious moment she imagined setting an arrow into the spongey gap between his ribs. It was not an attack he was mounting though as he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. Rigid and afraid, she relaxed as she realised he was hugging her.

Then he let her go and went from the room, striding with a sense of purpose.

"Are you okay?"

Both asked at the same time, drawing a shy smile from each other.

"Yeah," Lucas ran his hands through his hair, "Strange night."

"Even for my family," she agreed, slumping beside him on the sofa.

"Is this your father's study?"

"Yes," she answered, scanning the room with her eyes.

She had been in and out of this room on so many occasions. With the exception of her parents' bedroom, in the west wing of the house, there was no where she was not allowed to go. Even with that they had softened; Pubert often snuck in and climbed in between them, his little body punching and kicking its way through childish nightmares. Yes, they were wonderful parents. Under the surface there was the impression of something different though, of two people who were not just her mother and father. Like her, at one point, they had been young and full of dreams.

To think of them was both awkward and mysterious and when she did it seemed baffling; these two people who had raised her had had lives of their own, identities she did not know and could never understand. They had led lives before her and there were things about them she would never know – Gomez and Morticia and the people who raised her had very separate identities and dreams, passions and wants. Her father, from what she could infer, had been a rake and a cad who squandered money on champagne, weapons and women. Into his life had slithered her mother, cold and powerful, and he had fallen unquestionably at her feet and stayed there ever since. Then they had decided to have a family and that was her starting point.

Up until this revelation, sitting in her father's study, she had thought she was the start point of everything. But no, she had actually come in the middle of a story. She felt like an impostor.

Her reverie was broken by the pounding of shoes across the tiles of the hall and she looked up just in time to see the figure of her father blur past in a streak of speed. She jumped to her feet and arrived in the hall just in time to see him go out the door.

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><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed this. Please review. <strong>


	9. Eros

**Thank you for reading and reviewing this story. This was the chapter I most enjoyed writing. **

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><p>Standing looking at her, he had never thought her more desirable, nor more vulnerable. He loved her fully, entirely and without question at all times. Like all men though, there were times when he wanted to run from her. For him it had not been when she was irrational - for Morticia was never irrational- or when things became hard. No, it was when she was vulnerable. It was not because she was unattractive to him at these times, or that she was morose, but because it was impossible to bare the agony he felt when she was helpless. It rarely happened but when it did he felt it like a blow. She was so strong, so consuming, that vulnerability in her was too intimate a thing to witness – even for him.<p>

The first time he had born witness to her vulnerability was following Wednesday's birth. She had been exhausted, and the task had been unpleasantly hard for her. Instead of a burst of exquisite agony and then the cloying delights of motherhood, it was arduous and life-draining and her body, the body he had so worshipped, could not handle it. That body which invited pain and agony seemed then to abandon her. They had never shared this revelation with anyone, the only ones who knew were her mother and the midwife who had attended her, but pale and almost lifeless she had lay in their bed while their little daughter was set aside and her mother was revived.

Wednesday in a bassinet by the window, he had lay beside her on the new sheets hours later and held her shivering body against his – she did not shiver from pleasure, or excitement, but from the unstoppable force of weakness and mortality. Up until then they had lived as immortals; poisons and pleasure, hedonism and heedlessness. The realisation that they did not control everything was a sensation he had never known before. From that night onwards he had treated her differently – not a perceptible shift, but a realisation of her fragility – and had witnessed her humanity as something not to be enjoyed but to be treasured. He had stopped expecting the world of her, and instead expected himself to give her it.

There were times after this, of course, but this one remained etched on his conscious. It was the first time he had saw his wife as a reality and not as a construct of his own desires.

They would speak of it rarely, pressed against each other in bed, and even share a brief smile over the senselessness of their younger selves. It was always on the periphery of fear though and sometimes the mere thought of her vulnerability would cripple him.

_I'm only human_, she would whisper to him on occasion, and not realise how awful that was for him to hear.

Because her words forced him to acknowledge that one day there would be an end for them too, as there was an end for everything.

So she was as vulnerable as ever she had been then, her pale face tipped towards the full and worshipping moon.

"Are you here to convince me to stay?"

It was so typical of her to ask a casual, flippant question at the height of his torture. She stared at the sky still.

"Would it work?"

She did not look at him, "You've always exercised more power over me than I've ever given you credit for."

He smiled at this, though she would never see it. Morticia had a way of granting permission which was so indirect that it had taken him a long time to understand the terms of her games. He lifted his hand. He was within touching distance of her fur-clad shoulder and to make a connection with her, to pull her back, was all he wanted. Fragile as a feather but hard as diamond. He felt her bare skin under his hands in his memory, flexed his fingers, but pulled away at the last second.

"I've always given you credit for it. Do you think so little of this, to leave it all behind?"

She laughed a little laugh, "This? Don't you mean us? I will always have _this_…" she motioned around her with her hand, "_This_ means nothing to me."

"But us?"

"Means everything," her voice cracked.

"Then don't go," he pleaded, "Don't go Morticia."

"You rarely say my name," she whispered, "It's Tish or cara mia…"

"Look at me, Morticia."

"No," she shook head, "Do you regret making a promise you couldn't keep?"

"Yes," he swore, meaning every word of it, "Of course. But tell me you remember it; when there was none of this. When it was just the beginning and you and I embarked on our love affair-"

"One would have argued it never stopped," she interrupted softly, "I would have."

"It didn't," he slipped his hands in his pockets, toed the dusty gravel beneath his feet with his brogues, "You didn't want to tell your parents. I wanted to – I begged you – I was tired of your being my mistress, of sneaking around, of planning a wedding with your sister I wanted to have with you. You wouldn't let me. A part of you was scared…a part of you enjoyed it Morticia."

She was silent then, thinking over what could be construed as an accusation.

"We had legitimate reason not to tell them. Despite what you think, I did not enjoy it."

There was no conviction in her voice. They both had; they had been incredibly, unapologetically selfish. They had discovered indescribable love and they were not willing to relinquish it. Even now, he could feel them pull and tug at their refusal to relinquish it.

"And Wednesday, for whatever reason, thought she had legitimate reason too."

"She told you," she answered and it was almost bitter, "And you kept it from me."

"You know why," he answered, his voice rising just a fraction, "Because she felt she could tell at least one of us. Who was I to deny her that? She isn't afraid of us and doesn't that make you proud? She knew, inevitably, that I would tell you. And never has she invited me so fully into her confidences. She knew you would know eventually. She wanted you to know."

"But you did not tell me."

"No, not quickly enough, and for that I am truly sorry Morticia."

There was a pause and then she turned to him. Her eyes were large and full of unshed tears. Her face was paler than usual too, if that was possible.

"Do you regret your life with me Gomez?"

"No," he said emphatically, "And you know that. You're asking to see how far you can push me while knowing I would follow you to the ends of this godforsaken earth. Morticia, I know you intimately. Do not expect so little of me. Do not think I am the man who will give in like this."

"Perhaps that's where we went wrong," she sighed, "Holding each other to such high standards."

"Forgive me for failing your standards, Mrs Addams," he reached out to touch her face.

She turned her lips into his palm, leaving a kiss there. He had been quietly surprised, and enraptured, when she decided to take his name. She had been fiercely independent and he had been frightened to ask her. He was a traditionalist and had always imagined his wife would take his name but when he was a week away from marrying her he realised he wasn't sure what she intended to do. _Of course_, she had laughed in response, _we're partners_ and _we should be under the same banner_. The simplicity of her response had shattered him.

"My mother told me to be careful of clever men with silver tongues," she looked at him, her mouth fighting a smile.

"In your presence I am often found without words," he answered honestly.

"Don't ever do it again," her voice was both frightened and demanding, "I couldn't-"

"I swear to you," he said, "Never again."

He took her in his arms then, held her shivering body to his. She relaxed in his embrace and he simply marvelled in her forgiveness. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in; almonds and earth, the tinge of poisonous roses.

"I tried to go," she whispered against his ear, "But I couldn't."

"Dance with me, cara mia."

She laughed softly, "No. No Gomez."

"Come on Morticia," he smiled and dropped a kiss to her neck, "Dance with me."

"You're a charmer, do you know that?"

She started to move with him anyway, swaying slowly from side to side. She laughed despite herself.

"I try," he laughed.

"My mother told my sister to be wary of you too…little did she know she was warning the entirely wrong person."

"Fools, aren't they? Parents, I mean," he laughed.

"When did we become just parents?"

"Never," he answered, "We never did."

-0-

Morticia had known he was behind her the entire time – he was, after all, always at her back. She had reached the bottom of the gravel and slipped between Gate around fifteen minutes before, even though he groaned with misery at having to oblige her. When she stood on the other side of their property though she realised how futile her flight seemed. She was tethered to that house and that graveyard and that man. She couldn't turn around though either. Her ties had made her immobile to push forward but too humiliated to turn back. Tears were threatening her eyes and for him to see her vulnerable was the worst of their marriage. She didn't feel unable to show him but exposed when she did. He pitied her then and that, even after more than 20 years married, felt unfair on him. Nonetheless he loved her and perhaps it was right for him to see what he had done.

The words they shared in their exchange were immaterial, though honest, but his embrace was when she finally gave in. As weak and wilful as it was, to be in his arms was everything to her. When she had first laid eyes on him, at the dinner which sealed his engagement to her sister, she had thought that he would be more affected by her than she would ever be by him. It had been a monstrous, glorious mistake on her part.

Their swaying ceased and she looked into his eyes. They were black and desperate and she was sure hers mirrored his pain. Their embrace had become increasingly more intimate and his hands were crushing him to her, wrapping her thoroughly in him. Hers sought warmth under his jacket, slipping under the rich woollen blazer to clutch his back. He did the same and slid his hand under the heavy fur to hold her hips. His hands were a pale work of art and she pictured them in her mind's eye as they drew circles on her sides and traced the bones of her corsetry. Those hands were untouched by work; sometimes stained from newspaper ink and ticker-tape. Clad in leather in the winter months, they attracted her in the most unsuspecting moments. She loved what his hands brought her in all manner, intimate and public.

"Take me home," she whispered, aware of how weak her voice was, "Take me to our home."

"I am so sorry I hurt you," he muttered, "I hate to see you like this."

"I know. I despise_ being_ like this," she toyed with the waistband on his trousers, her nails slipping below the wool.

"Tish," he kissed her jaw line, "You know I want to see you at your worst, as well as your best. I may hate it but it doesn't mean I shouldn't see it."

"But never when I'm vulnerable," she laughed, curling her nails over the muscles at the bottom of his back.

"Even when you're vulnerable," he promised and she believed him, "Perhaps even more so. We've given everything to each other, why not that?"

She kissed him then and said those words which were so rare. Words she so rarely said because they were paltry, easy, and at times too simple to convey the breath-taking, deep feeling that stirred within her gut and heart. Those words were whispered only when everything else failed her. Sometimes they forced their way into her mouth in a gasp of ecstasy and she didn't expect them, or they came to her after she awoke and she was watching him dress, or sometimes as he read or played with their son.

"I love you, Gomez."

He smiled, "I love you too, so much."

-0-

Wednesday smiled at her future in-laws, surprised at her own saccharine happiness at such a sight. They were sitting on the couch in the parlour, before the fire, their hands clutched together and their heads pressed as they spoke lowly. It was past midnight and they must surely be tired but their contentment seemed too much. She and Lucas had sat waiting on Mal, while he disappeared up the guest room they had been allocated by her mother to try and win his wife over. They had come down a while later, hugged them and thanked them both.

"Thanks for this," Lucas whispered as he pulled her back from the door.

"It's nothing to do with me."

"You were brave enough to speak to my dad."

They headed towards the stairs but he pulled her into one of the recesses, nearly knocking over a bust of Uncle Rankle. They laughed and re-set it on its plinth before engaging in a heated kiss. It was both passionate and relaxed. The storm of fury from their parents seemed to have made another bond between them; it felt easier to take it slowly. They were soon dragged from their distraction though by voices in the hall. Lucas looked momentarily startled, then his eyes widened at the sound of a breathy voice.

"Mon cher…don't do that here…ohhhh, Gomez!"

"French? Tish, what else do you expect me to do?"

"Have some patience…is there a chance I might win this argument? Gomez, please…."

Wednesday, paralysed with humiliation for a moment, pulled Lucas further into the recess. She wasn't too worried about being caught kissing her future husband but more embarrassed by the prospect of her fiancé witnessing the most explicit love-affair in history. Her parents thought they were alone and when they were alone it was obviously their favourite way to pass the time, so while she couldn't be angry she could be embarrassed by their behaviour.

The two figures paused on the stairs to exchange more than just a heated kiss and to shed clothing, amongst them her mother's favourite fur coat. The rich garment landed with a soft thump and slithered down a few of the steps, joined quickly by her father's startlingly white shirt.

"Bedroom?"

Her father asked, and with her mother's visceral moan she was eternally glad there was little light with which to witness their encounter. Lucas almost shuddered at the noise.

"No. I think you have earned the dungeon, don't you?"

Her father laughed darkly, and scooping her mother up, carried her up the rest of the stairs.

"Dungeon? Isn't that down the way?"

She looked at Lucas and nodded her head.

"I've never really explained how my parents behave, have I?"

"No," he answered, "No."

"Just off my mother's dressing room there's a dungeon…well, stairs which lead to a dungeon. I've never been in it. I don't think I ever want to be. My parents have very particular…tastes."

"You mean they-"

"Yes," she shook her head, "Quite freely. They have predilections which they are quite…open about."

"And they're like that," he pointed towards the empty stairs, "All the time?"

"That?" She laughed ruefully, "That's tame."

He was silent for a moment, then he just shrugged, "Cool."

"Really?"

She couldn't keep the shock from her voice.

He laughed quietly, "I hope we're like that."

She shuddered, "After knowing them for a while you won't."

"Can _we_ go upstairs now?"

He reached down and she suppressed a squeal – girly and so unlike her – as he scooped her into his arms. She was both mildly uncomfortable and amused.

"Put me down!"

"Don't protest. It makes it weird."

She just laughed and rested her head on his shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Please, please, please review!<strong>


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